


Hash-bros

by rosewindow



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewindow/pseuds/rosewindow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can’t believe we’re driving fifty fucking miles for fucking fast food.”</p><p>Brad and Ray being bros post-Iraq, and an ode to Waffle House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hash-bros

**Author's Note:**

> For nininghasfeelings (on tumblr). (Based on the HBO portrayals.)

When the plane Brad was on made an unexpected stop at the Kansas City International Airport he just walked out into the sunshine rather than dealing with yet another standby list. He realized it might not have been the most strategic plan as he was dialing Ray’s number, but his former RTO didn’t let him down, and a few hours later he was drinking beer and playing video games in Ray’s apartment.

That was almost a week ago. This is today:

“I can’t believe we’re driving fifty fucking miles for fucking fast food.”

“I’ve driven farther for stupider shit. Anyway, this isn’t just ‘fast food,’ it’s like ambrosia. Like better than ‘getting a jalapeño and cheese MRE after weeks of nothing but peanut butter’ good.”

The radio in the truck had been set to a country music station because Ray Person was a walking cliché, but Brad had changed channels immediately.

“My ride, my rules, holmes.”

“Ray, that only works if you don’t also claim passenger rights to choose the station in other people’s vehicles.”

Ray shrugs and turns the eighties station up a bit.

There’s something not as satisfying about simply singing along with the radio instead of doing their own impromptu a cappella with Trombley and Reporter in the back seat doing the back-up vocals, but Brad and Ray don’t let that stop them from rocking out to the Eurythmics. Brad’s impressed that he hasn’t entirely lost his falsetto.

Ray talks less state-side when he’s not hopped up on adrenaline and caffeine; Brad knows this. At the end of that first tour in Iraq, he’d been thanking the gods he didn’t believe in that Ray had finally shut up. But it feels strange to be driving next to a quiet Ray Person. Well, mostly quiet.

“Didja have fun in jolly old England, Brad? With those floofy black hats and teatime? Did Big Gay Brad come out to play?”

Brad doesn’t miss a beat. “Is this the truck you were conceived in, Ray? Or the one you were born in?”

Ray cheerfully flips him off and turns from one flat stretch of highway onto another identical stretch. Even at night, Brad can tell that southern Missouri is depressingly featureless.

They finally pull up under the yellow lighted sign that reads ‘WAFFLE HOUSE.’ Brad gives Ray a look.

“Ray, this looks like the kind of place where people get stabbed because they haven’t brought enough money to pay for their moonshine.”

“Dude, we’re both Recon Marines. Plus you’ve got all that fancy fucking British Commando training. Are you seriously worried about getting shanked? That’s what I thought.” Ray hops out of the truck and slams the door. “Anyway, you can only get moonshine by appointment.”

When Ray had found out that Brad had never been to a Waffle House before, he had freaked out. “Holy shit, man! Waffle House is the shiznit. We went there on every fucking debate trip. I swear to God, Waffle House hashbrowns are like the best damn things on this planet. Better than sex. Like in that song,” Ray burst out singing, “Want you smothered, want you covered like my Waffle House hashbrowns! Man I love that song.”

The end result of Ray’s rant was a late night trip to the nearest Waffle House, a mere fifty miles away. Brad was not amused.

Ray was right though; the hashbrowns were totally fucking worth it.


End file.
